


The Race

by murakistags



Series: Murder Family Values™ [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Hannigram - Freeform, Multi, Murder Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 01:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8036329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakistags/pseuds/murakistags
Summary: “You know I'm not running. Clearly, I'm not running. Though maybe I should be.”“No, Will, you shouldn't be.”“...Right. Could still outrun you, though.”Abigail interjects into the boyish (and admittedly cute) banter with a spread of her arms, a playful roll of her eyes, and an announcement. “How about I outrun both of you while you stand here in the dust and continue on like schoolboys?”-Will, Hannibal, and Abigail all playfully challenging one another to a spontaneous race/sprint? Just Murder Family things. This is one giant, very gratuitous AU Post-S3 What-Should-Have-Been fluffball. No regrets to be had.





	The Race

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of adding more little ficlets like this to a series. I have to admit, the Murder Family always gets to me. Nothing like seeing them together, whole and happy, and all alive. I'm a sucker for their domestic dynamics. I spend approximately 15% of each day musing and crying silently about how lovely they could have been in canon. Long Live Abigail Hobbs, and all that jazz.
> 
> Also, this has not been beta-read, so all mistakes are my own and I apologize for them.
> 
> Bon appétit.

“I could easily outrun you.”

 

“...Is that so?”

 

“It is so.”

 

“That sounds like a challenge.”

 

“Okay, no. Don't psychoanalyze that, Hannibal. I meant it as physically running.”

 

“And mentally?”

 

“You know I'm not running. Clearly, I'm not running. Though maybe I _should_ be.”

 

“No, Will, you shouldn't be.”

 

“...Right. Could still outrun you, though.”

 

Abigail interjects into the boyish (and admittedly cute) banter with a spread of her arms, a playful roll of her eyes, and an announcement. “How about I outrun _both_ of you while you stand here in the dust and continue on like schoolboys?”

 

That makes both Hannibal and Will smile, though each to different degrees. Hannibal's quirk of lips is mild, reflected in his maroon eyes. Will comes off as more of an impish grin, the expression pulling at his cheeks stubbled with scraggly beard. Abigail nearly comments on how exactly opposite and equal they are, but she bites her tongue and lowers her arms again. Palms rest at her slender waist, elbows jutting out, and suddenly she looks less like a young woman, more like a bratty teenage girl again.

 

“Now _that_ sounds like a challenge,” Will comments, a lilt in his voice completely young and spry, unlike the darker moments sometimes shared in their odd, familial relationship.

 

Abigail shifts on her feet then, fixes her gaze upwards at both of the men taller, standing shoulder to shoulder before her. Raising an arm, she stretches slowly and rolls her neck and is readying for a fistfight, the lavender-colored fabric of her windbreaker shifting with the movement.

 

“Oh yeah? I'll have you know, I used to run track in high school,” she says, delight in her voice.

 

“Did you?” Hannibal asks with a raise of brows, that strange wry smile still dancing across his lips. In all his time with Abigail, this is the very first time he's hearing of this feat.

 

“...Nope. Just made that up. But I could have, if I'd wanted to.”

 

The first _and_ last time he's heard of this, apparently.

 

It makes Hannibal chuckle at Abigail's cheeky grin, makes Will smile all the more widely as he takes a pointed step forward.

 

They're all matching, the three of them. Hannibal looks entirely different than the norm in this active-wear consisting of long grey sweatpants, black sneakers, and a red windbreaker zipped almost to the top above skin-tight, black lycra shirt peeking out. Will is wearing long black sweatpants, a nondescript white cotton t-shirt, and an olive green windbreaker above. Abigail is in black yoga pants that end at her shins, sneakers a combination of neon green and black, and a simple black tank top beneath her lavender windbreaker. Hannibal's hair is slicked back, Will's hair is an unruly mess of curls not at all helped by the avid breeze, and Abigail has pulled all her hair up and back into a high ponytail. There's a strange air of deadly efficiency that they all exude together, and that's not only because they all have dressed sharply and similarly. If looks could kill, the Graham-Lecter Murder Family would be the definite culprit.

 

“Are we really going to race, though? Is this even a good idea?” Will is attempting to be the voice of reason, for already he knows he's lost Abigail's vote in favor of this family activity. One glance up at Hannibal and Will immediately knows that he's lost the doctor's vote, too. Hannibal looks ready to go, feet apart and hands hanging at his sides, looking lean and aimed to conquer.

 

“I don't see why not. The path is certainly long enough for a sprint, and there is nobody else in sight.”

 

Hannibal is right. One look around at the park and forested area around them, and it's obvious that the three of them are alone. The threat of rain looms from the ominous clouds in the grey sky above, and while others had clearly taken it as a warning to stay indoors, the three here have decided to take it as an invitation to enjoy the lush surroundings in peace. Granted it was Abigail's idea for them to go running, and none of them have any idea how it suddenly evolved into a playful little race of sorts. Nobody is complaining, though. Not even Will in his apparent hesitance.

 

“We can start here,” Abigail offers suddenly, using the toe of her sneaker to draw a line in the dirt across the path's width. Looking ahead to the openness ahead, the path is smooth and light brown, the earth dry and aching for the rain that is certain to come soon enough. It stretches on for a while, but not far enough to fade into the brush, only ending by a handful of wood and iron park benches strategically stationed for runners that would take this very route and tire by the end of it. Beyond that, the park's boundaries disappear into a thick line of trees.

 

The three take their respective places behind the drawn line, eyeing one another as the banter starts anew. Abigail is bouncing on her heels to ready herself, Will is shifting from one foot to another, and Hannibal is rolling his shoulders, bending slightly at the hip.

 

“Rules! No foul-play, okay? No pushing or shoving or cheating in general. That means you, Hannibal.”

 

The older man looks appalled at being called out by his own daughter, ready to object.

 

Will beats him to it with a derisive snort. “Hear that, Hannibal? Play fair, you-”

 

“You too, Will. No trash-talking allowed,” Abigail interjects with a knowing raise of brows, and behind her Hannibal smirks, appeased.

 

Will playfully grumbles at the chastising, fronting a grumpy expression that lasts for precious little time before he's grinning again and bending into his start position. Abigail mimics him, and Hannibal readies as well.

 

“Winner is the first one to that far bench. Third place does the dishes tonight. Got it?”

 

“Got it.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Abigail nods and allows her fingertips to barely skim the dirt, determination written on her young face. Hannibal is staring out ahead of him, but not intensely enough that he doesn't cast a sideways glance at the girl between him and Will, and then at the other man himself. Will's blue eyes seem to shimmer even in the dullness of the air and light, intent to win obvious as the firm line of his locked jaw.

 

“On three...” Abigail's smooth voice begins to count.

 

Tension is in the air, almost tangible.

 

“One... two... _three_!”

 

She barely gets the last syllable out before they are all off and rushing across the path. Heels dig angrily into the earth and kick up a storm of dust in their wake.

 

Abigail is fast, and at first she easily takes the lead. Her body is lithe, compact, and though she may not have the muscle strength akin to that of Hannibal or Will, she is very much used to navigating raw dirt paths. Where she zooms forward in a surprisingly swift stride from the start line, her long ponytail trails behind like a flag.

 

But Abigail's victory is short-lived. From either side of her, both Hannibal and Will come shooting forward with a ferocity that she can't possibly match. They are nearly tied, Hannibal just a step or two in the lead of them all. The sprint in actuality only takes a handful of tense seconds, not even the entirety of a minute, but it seems to move in slow-motion. Every time Abigail pushes harder to catch up to Will, she falls a step behind again.

 

By the time the three of them have reached towards the end, legs are aching and muscles burning with lactic acid, chest are breathing deeply in heavy pants for air. Hannibal is set to win, also.

 

But at the very last second, victory in sight, Will shoots forward and bypasses Hannibal's lead with little extra effort. Will ekes out what little bit of strength he has left, and propels himself across the 'finish line' of benches with Hannibal right on his tail. The doctor looks impressed when he finishes the race not a whole second behind the empath, and then looks more impressed still when Abigail is also coming to a stop right on his heels.

 

All three of them finally come to a halt just past the path's end, crowding around an empty park bench as they gasp and breathe heavily in a plethora of different positions. Abigail groans loudly at having lost by just a bit after having the initial lead, her palms bracing on her knees as she bends forward and gasps for air. Hannibal stands mildly hunches with hands on his hips, arms spread apart so that he can suck in deep gulps of air as well. Will is panting something fierce, but he's also jovial, hands in fists and arms raised above him with a triumphant grin.

 

“I won. H-Ha-- _ha_ , I won!”

 

Abigail licks her lips, uses the back of her hand to wipe sweat from her brow, and stands straight again with a roll of her eyes and a breathless chuckle echoed by Hannibal's own.

 

“Fine, fine. You win.”

 

“Excellent job, Special Agent Graham.”

 

They're both equally as teasing as they are sincere, and it makes Will tilts his head back and gasp for air, laugh unabashed into the open air. The entire scene has become jovial and amused in mere seconds, charged in the wake of their little playful activity together. The brightness and laughter clashes with the cloudy and dim atmosphere. Will teasingly gloats, Hannibal admits defeat, and Abigail tries very hard to pretend that she's grumpy about having lost and that she must keep the promise to do all the dishes tonight.

 

They all banter and quip at one another without falsities, merely enjoying the moment while it lasts, before they must return home and before the rain begins to fall.

 

“Good to know I still have it in me from the academy,” Will chuckles, licking his parched lips as he continues to pant softer now.

 

“I would rather attribute it to a stroke of good luck, Will, but all the same...”

 

“Pfftt. _Okay_ , Will, sure. You haven't even been a legit police officer in _how_ many years? I agree with Hanni; it was just a stroke of luck.”

 

“It wasn't _luck_. I'm naturally good at this!”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Yeah right. Says the one who was also complaining about ' _ooohh I was stabbed when I was a cop, oooohhh I can't shoot a gun because my shouldeeerrrr._ '”

 

“H-Hey! I really was! That was a legitimate injury. ...From which I recovered. I can still shoot a gun.”

 

“I hardly think that fact needs reaffirming in this company.”

 

“I bet you I'm a better shot, though. ...Better than either of you.”

 

“I'm not the _best_ shot, but I could give you a run for your money, Abigail.”

 

“I'm inclined to agree, on both counts.”

 

“I'm _definitely_ the best shot here. I hunt, and _very_ well, at that. Trust me.”

 

“Challenge accepted, then.”

 

“Will. Abigail--”

 

“Tonight! I want a rematch from this race, then. Loser has to do the dishes instead. And that's gonna be _you_.”

 

“It'll be you doing the dishes, actually. I only have handguns, and that's my line of expertise, Miss Hunter.”

 

“Will--”

 

“It's not that different! It's about your own personal aim anyway, not the scope. I'll win.”

 

“Uh-huh. I guess we'll have to see, then. Meet me in the backyard, tonight at six.”

 

“Abigail, you--”

 

“I'll see you there, buddy. Don't bring a knife to a gunfight.”

 

“How about you focus on bringing your game? You'll need it to win.”

 

“.....”

 

Hannibal had just given up talking eventually, unable to reach neither Will nor Abigail in their amusing banter. He finds it endearing, actually, and watches with rapt interest between the two, an unmistakable smile creeping onto his lips. Hannibal knows that once they return home, he will cook dinner, as usual. And then, as usual, both Will and Abigail will do the dishes together.

 

...Never mind that Will and Abigail are still now trying to outsmart one another with the fingers-to-eyes 'I'm watching you' gesture.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, don't forget to leave kudos and comments. They inspire me and make me smile.
> 
> Please consider [buying me a coffee for a fic](https://ko-fi.com/murakistags)!


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